


Spitting Venom

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Canon, Childhood Trauma, Enemies to Lovers, Jealousy, M/M, Past Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-19 11:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21884164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A few years before the events of The Force Awakens, Generals Hux and Ren make a simple, if crass, arrangement. The ground rules are simple and they both plan on heeding them, but you know what they say about the best laid plans.Caught on opposite sides of a brewing First Order civil war, the Generals are forced to confront one another -- and themselves -- in the process. "No strings attached" becomes complicated, feelings become liabilities, other people stand between them at every step of the way.And the long years change them.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren, Phasma (Star Wars)/Original Female Character (background)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 129
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Bite My Tongue

“What was that?” Hux taunted as he trailed behind Ren.

“What was what?”

“In there, with Snoke…”

“I’d have thought by now you would know what losing looks like, General.”

“Not _ that_,” Hux growled, shame rising to his cheeks as he was reminded of his own failure. “Your reaction.” 

Although his blanche was undetectable beneath his helmet, Ren’s abrupt halt made Hux preen. “Perhaps you should be more concerned with your own reaction, General,” intoned Ren, turning to face the man who had stopped beside him, whose heart had jumped into his throat once Ren homed in on him, predatory and intense. “One more mistake like that and Supreme Leader Sn—”

“Don’t play coy with me, Ren.” Hux attempted to keep his breathing even. “You’re not as subtle as you think.” 

The voice modulator crackled as Ren sighed. “I don’t have time for your games.”

Hux took a step closer, sideways into Ren’s personal space, obstructing the quick escape that he seemed to so desire. “I may not have preternatural powers,” he said, “but my eyes work perfectly fine.” 

The silence that hung in the air was a stark contrast to the deep, loud crackle of Ren’s vocoder. It was a silence that seemed to stretch longer than it ought, an unnatural silence, and when Ren neither spoke nor moved, Hux leaned in closer, his expression teetering on sadistic bliss as his fingers snaked between Ren’s black robes. It took Ren longer than it ought have to respond, his own hand darting out to catch Hux by the wrist, his grasp tight enough that Hux squawked.

The damage was already done, though. Ren’s entire body seemed to thrum and shudder with restraint. 

“You’re _ hard_,” Hux oozed. 

Another shriek. Ren had wrenched Hux’s hand away from him with enough force that it fractured something. A deep, shuddering, force-infused thud reverberated through the stuffy air as Ren shoved past Hux, pushing the smaller man backwards and resuming his course. This time, however, he moved like a man possessed, strides so long that Hux had to jog after him, rubbing his wrist as he stumbled forward. 

“You’re pathetic!” Hux’s voice echoed shrilly through the passageway. “Getting off on his praise like some Corellian whelp!” 

Ren didn’t falter as he swept from one corridor to the next, sending a pair of bemused Stormtroopers hurtling through the air with a flick of his wrist. 

“What is it, Ren?” Hux continued, breathing laboured from pain and exertion and excitement. “Do you like being Snoke’s favourite boy? His favourite _ pet _?” Ren’s gloved hands balled into fists, his footsteps cracking like thunder. “Do you like the power he wields? Do you like feeling outmatched for once?” Spittle coated his lips as he roared the words, eyes manic and wide. “I bet you imagine bending over and taking the big ugly fucker up the arse while he calls you a good b—EGH—!”

Hux hardly had time to process the sudden closure of his windpipe before his entire body was slammed brutally against the wall. His own blood-curdling scream sounded faint in comparison to the ringing in his ears. The dizzying pain at the base of his skull and the subsequent trickle of blood that slid beneath his collar and down his back made nausea churn in his stomach. It was all he could do to hold back the vomit.

“General Hux,” intoned Ren, crackling voice cutting through the heady confusion of Hux’s pounding headache. Through tears, he could see Ren advancing slowly toward him, one hand clasped behind his back, the other reaching out, curling around Hux’s throat from meters away, the gap closing with each stride until his fingers slotted into place around the pale, slender neck, and the crushing power of the force was replaced by Ren’s sheer physical strength. Hux attempted to inhale deeply and immediately descended into a coughing fit, his throat still raw and burning. Ren’s gloved fingers were cold and merciless against the pale flesh of Hux’s neck, which had already started to discolour — yellow and brown and pink.

With his free hand, Ren removed his mask languidly. His irises were impossibly dark, features cast half in shadow. When he swallowed thickly, Hux’s gaze flitted to the bobbing of his Adam’s apple.

“General Hux,” he said again, and Hux was helpless to do anything but listen. "It's rude to pry. Especially when you might not be prepared for the truth.” His helmet clattered to the floor, and Hux, who was struggling to remain upright, shuddered violently in his grasp, eyes still bulging. “I wasn’t thinking about my victory,” Ren murmured. “I was thinking about your failure.”

Hux’s pale, watery eyes widened even further as Ren closed the distance between them and pressed himself flush again the smaller man, pinning the man in place with his weight. A small, broken, choked gasp left him when he felt Ren’s erection pressing insistently his stomach. 

“I was thinking about you, General, and how weak you looked, standing there. How pathetic — how desperate for praise. I was thinking about how easy to overpower you’d be. How much sweeter my success would be if I were to bend _ you _over and fuck you into the ground.” Ren hummed softly, his gaze flickering emotionlessly over Hux’s face. “I was looking at those big, indignant eyes,” he said, pouting with mock pity and swiping tears from Hux’s cheek with a gloved thumb. “So full of contempt for me.” Ren shifted slightly against him, eyes briefly flickering closed at the friction, savouring the feeling of Hux’s own erection twitching in response to the movement. “I could take what I want,” he continued, “or you could just give in to it. Accept that I’ve won, that I’ll always win, and that secretly, deep down, a part of you enjoys it.”

Hux just stared at him, jaw stuttering open and closed, no coherent sound escaping him, until his gaze flitted sideways, past Ren. He made a strangled, panicked noise.

“What was that?” Ren asked, voice little more than a whisper, seconds before Hux’s distraction sunk in fully. Confusion spread over his face, then anger, and then he turned. 

When the Stormtrooper tried to run, she made it three feet before being lifted into the air. 

Ren feigned nonchalance when he looked back, but Hux struggled to take his eyes off the soldier suspended in midair, choking to death. Ren grabbed Hux’s jaw with the hand that had been constricting his throat and wrenched his attention back, but after a few moments, Ren sighed again. Hux’s breaths came in deep, shuddering wheezes, tears flowing freely from his wide, watery blue eyes. Soon the Stormtrooper stopped making any noise at all.

At once, the limp soldier landed in a crumpled heap on the floor and Ren took a step back from Hux, who sunk to his knees once Ren’s weight was no longer propping him upright. Despite the emotionless gaze, Ren’s breathing was laboured and heavy. The loud thrum of the force that had surrounded them began to abate until shuddering breaths and hydraulics were all that could be heard.

When Hux looked up at Ren’s face, he could not fathom the expression. It held everything and nothing; an black canvas from which light leaked and twisted, unknowable and dark. A trapped snake writhing in a pit. 

“Get her to the medical wing,” Ren intoned, hoarse, “for reconditioning.”

Hux thought he saw fear flash behind those deep, dark brown eyes, like a cat’s eyes glinting in headlights, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared, and Ren was turning on his heels, helmet flying into his outstretched hand. Hux said nothing, his breathing still laboured, folded legs quaking, knees beginning to ache. 

By the time the echoes of Ren’s footfalls had subsided, Hux was left alone with an unconscious body, a softening hardness, and a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach.

Long minutes passed, elongating endlessly, until a pair of Stormtroopers rounded the corner and Hux’s head snapped up. He tried fruitlessly to school his expression into something calmer. “You there,” he said, spittle flying from his mouth, fury igniting in his chest at how weak he sounded. “You there,” he said again, evener, and the pair stopped dead in their tracks, bewildered. “This trooper just attacked me.” Hux attempted to stand with as much dignity as possible, but couldn’t suppress the wince of pain. “I want her taken for reconditioning _immediately_.”

They sprung into action on cue, holstering their guns and jogging over to the body. Hux sniffed, refusing to wipe any of the snot or blood on his cuff out of propriety, instead fishing a handkerchief from his pocket. It hurt to straighten his spine and clasp his hands behind his back, but he did so anyway, watching the Stormtroopers carry out his order effortlessly, ignoring the glances they cast furtively at him — at, he imagined, the tears that stained his cheeks, and the way his legs quivered weakly. 

“Sir,” one of the troopers began tentatively. Hux pinned him with a furious glare, but he continued, “Do you need an escort to the medical wing?”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Sir?”

“I said that won’t be necessary.”

“General Hux, you’re bleeding—” 

The trooper halted mid-sentence when Hux strode furiously toward him, savage, unbridled anger etched into every line of his face, every stiff line of his body. The gulp was almost audible, and it gave Hux sweet relief to be in charge again. “Do you want to join her in reconditioning?” he asked, that sick, sadistic smirk creeping onto his face now that control and order had been restored. 

“N-no, sir,” was the response.

“Then do what I’ve asked, and only what I’ve asked.”

“Yes — yes, sir.”

“Good.” 

Hux watched as they dragged the body away, glancing at one another but not at Hux. He puffed out his chest and breathed a shaky sigh once they disappeared from sight, regretting it instantly when pain stabbed at his lungs. 

“Fuck,” he gasped, wincing. “Phasma.”

“General Hux,” came the crackling voice in his ear, “to what do I owe the p—”

“Meet me in my quarters. I need a… a favour.”

Hux cut the connection without another word, boots clicking loudly as he swept down the passageway.


	2. Bide My Time

When Hux came to, he was sprawled on Phasma’s chaise lounge. Despite his confusion, he’d recognise her quarters anywhere, in any state. “How did I get here?” he asked, sitting up too quickly and regretting it.

“You walked,” she said, “mostly.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Not long. Five minutes… Maybe more. You were outside my door when I got here. I thought you were dead.”

“Hm.”

“Here,” Phasma beckoned him closer, scowling when he jumped at the hand she placed on the nape of his neck. “Quit squirming,” she instructed gruffly, turning her face from him to dip a cloth into a basin of hot water and wring it out. “It’s barely a scratch.” 

Hux grunted; half in pain, half in response. “Concussion is more than a scratch.”

“One problem at a time, Armitage.”

Phasma didn’t possess a tender bone in her body, nor a manner particularly suited to a bedside, but Hux had always appreciated those qualities in her. There was nothing he despised more than being coddled, and there was certainly no danger of that here. This was one of the reasons he didn’t take the stormtrooper’s offer to be escorted to the medical wing — one of many.

For the time being, Hux elected to be quiet, and let Phasma tend to the wound at the base of his skull. There was no repressing the hiss of pain elicited by her dabbing disinfectant on his neck, but Phasma, for her part, ignored it. 

Despite her treatment of just about every other life form in the galaxy, Hux had wormed his way under her skin just enough that she did not often make fun of his weaknesses. If they were any other type of people, they might have called it friendship, but Hux despised such a twee notion. It was, at best, symbiosis. The General and the Captain each possessed things useful to the other, and so it was in their mutual interest to be civil. 

“I would ask how it happened,” Phasma began drolly, in, Hux imagined, a half-hearted effort to distract from the pain of being stitched up without an anesthetic, “but I have a feeling I know the answer.” 

The needle slipped under his skin, and he hissed with pain, body taut with the effort it took not to jolt violently at the sensation. There was something grounding about the pain that Hux savoured. It was a pain that he controlled, rather than a pain inflicted upon him. Gritting his teeth, he let it wash over him. Let it purge everything from his mind, every other sensation, until it was all his head had room for. 

They were each silent for the remainder of the ordeal, though Phasma’s eyes kept glancing distractedly at him, and Hux kept pretending not to notice. The last words she spoke hung in the air between them. It irritated him that Phasma knew so much about him. He supposed that was one of the downsides of… symbiosis. 

When she was done, Phasma washed and dried her hands while Hux stretched his limbs, careful not to jostle the freshly sealed wound. He sat up straighter on the bed, and was about to stand when Phasma stopped him.

“Not so fast,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder to still him. In her other hand, she held a torch. 

“I’m fine,” Hux groused. “I just needed stitches.” 

“One problem at a time, Armitage,” Phasma reminded him. “This is the next problem. Concussion seemed to be of concern to you five minutes ago.”

“That was before you started prying.”

“Who’s prying?” Phasma asked innocently, though Hux didn’t miss the slight curve of her lips. “Prying implies I don’t already know the answer. I do.” 

“You _ think _you know the answer.”

The light appeared in Hux’s eyes so suddenly that he recoiled, screwing his face up petulantly and groaning. 

“Oh, for the love of — just sit _ still _!” 

“Some warning would be nice, Phasma! My eyes are _ very _sensitive to—”

“—_very sensitive to light _,” she mocked, and Hux bristled, inwardly retracting that stray thought about their symbiosis. Perhaps he ought to have gone to the medical wing after all. After a few beats of glaring at one another, Hux conceded defeat and huffed a sigh. Phasma returned the light to his eyes, shaking her head in disbelief. “So,” she continued, “you’re saying it wasn’t Ren who did this?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Look straight ahead,” Phasma instructed, and Hux did as he was told.

“I’m saying you don’t know the specifics—”

“It wasn’t anything to do with your meeting with Snoke then?” The lilt of her voice was irritatingly smug.

For the first time, thanks to the arctic temperature of Phasma’s room, Hux noticed how few clothes he was wearing, and he tried awkwardly to hug his lanky body closer to him. The feeling of vulnerability engulfed him. “I asked you to do this because I thought you wouldn’t ask any questions.”

“No,” Phasma contested. “You asked me to do this because you thought I wouldn’t tell anyone. Any officer with half a brain who’s watched the theatrics between you and Ren would know exactly who did this to you.” 

Hux huffed and pouted, though he tried to disguise it as his usual grimace. “And will you?” he said, as she manoeuvred the light around his pupils. 

“Will I what?” she responded, distracted by her task.

“Tell anyone.” 

Phasma clicked the torch off as he spoke, and straightened to her full height, looking down at Hux. He looked a mess. She’d seen him after scuffles with Ren before, and he usually looked a mess, but there was something worse about him this time, something behind the disarrayed hair and bloodied nose. Something in his eyes. “No,” she replied at length, “concussion.” Then, after pausing for dramatic emphasis, “and no, I won’t.”

The sigh Hux breathed was audible, and he visibly relaxed into the seat. 

“You should stop pushing him, though.”

Hux tensed again almost immediately, glaring up at her with suspicion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t make me treat you like a child, Armitage. Parenthood doesn’t suit me.” Phasma’s eyes rolled upward at the expression Hux wore. To stop herself from saying something worse, she moved away from him to tidy all her equipment away, returning the torch to her medkit and the cloth and basin to her en suite. On her return, she diverted to her wardrobe and threw Hux a white undershirt at least two sizes too big for him. He caught it wordlessly, though his pained grimace intensified. 

Phasma turned her back to him, busying herself with something or nothing, as Hux fumbled the shirt over his head, turning around only once it sounded as though he’d finished. “Coffee?” she asked, trying not to react to how ridiculously morose he looked, drowning in that enormous shirt and gathering his knees to his chest like a child. 

“Please,” responded Hux, though his mind was clearly elsewhere. He stared at a small plant beside her shuttered view port, listening to the clatter of mugs and spoons in the corner of the room. Ren began to fill up all the space in his head again as he remembered the sadistic look in his eyes, the feeling of his fingers around his throat. Hux’s fingertips drifted toward the bruises he knew were blossoming on his neck, thinking suddenly of his father.

“I’ve only got decaf,” Phasma realised, derailing his train of thought.

“That’s fine,” he returned, blinking up in her direction, fingers still grazing his skin. They lapsed into silence, Phasma measuring out spoonfuls of coffee and Hux brooding, until he couldn’t hold back his question any longer. “Do you think I’m weak, Phasma?” he asked her from across the room.

Phasma huffed a sigh from where she stood, her pale blue eyes closing wearily before returning his gaze, as though they’d had this conversation many times before. Hux didn’t think they had. “No, Armitage, I don’t think you’re weak,” she said. “I think you have weaknesses, though, like all of us. There’s a difference.”

“What are my weaknesses?” he asked defensively.

“For starters,” she said, “you’re insecure.” The look she gave Hux from where she leant nonchalantly against the counter was pointed, an eyebrow raised. Hux’s throat worked as he swallowed the lump that had gathered.

When she’d finished, he accepted the First Order regulation black mug with unspoken gratitude, cradling it between his long, reddened fingers. Her preference for sub-zero temperatures did nothing to help his poor circulation. The searing heat of the coffee had been the main reason he had accepted it in the first place. 

Placing her own mug on her bedside table, Phasma seated herself next to him on the chaise lounge, stretching her arms out along the back. 

“Ren thinks he’s stronger than me,” Hux said after a while, not really expecting an answer. 

Phasma looked sideways at him, a frown knitting her brows together behind a blonde fringe. “Ren is stronger than you,” she replied matter-of-factly, unrepentant in the face of Hux’s shocked, irate expression. “Oh, come off it, Armitage.”

Looking away from her, Hux grumbled, “A little sugar coating wouldn’t go amiss,” though both of them knew that was a lie. Hux didn’t want the truth sugar coated. He wanted Phasma to magick an entirely different truth into existence - he wanted the impossible. 

“Ren’s stronger than all of us, unfortunately. You just happen to be physically weaker as well as not being force sensitive—” 

“Phasma,” he warned. 

“You’re a big boy, Armitage. You don’t need me to hold your hand.” Hux sipped at his coffee carefully to avoid responding. “But you didn’t get to be a General through nepotism alone, regardless of what everyone thinks.

“_Everyone _?”

“As a rule, I don’t give anyone advice,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “I’m going to make an exception, and I expect you to repay me for it some day.”

Hux was still frowning as pulled his knees closer to his chest. “Go on,” he said, accepting the debt. 

“Being underestimated is the best possible position to be in, General, and while it’s true you’ll never outmatch Ren in a fight, you’re sharper than he is.”

For a while, Hux was quiet, nursing the mug close to his chest. He knew, in his heart, that Phasma was right. Hux could never hope to overpower Ren in the way that Ren could overpower him, but the truth still stung. Yet, it somehow stung less than the possibility that Ren had been right, too, about Hux enjoying it. It was a perverse thought, to relish the very weakness that had made him the object of abuse and derision over all these years. 

Hux was lost in thought for so long that Phasma spoke again, sensing his unease. “My brother always underestimated me. My father, too. And yours.” Phasma’s fingers tapped restlessly against the back of the chair, her leg bouncing with growing fervor. “They all have one thing in common,” she added, and Hux, feeling her heavy gaze upon him, met her eyes. “They’re all dead.”

He considered this. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“Ren is volatile,” Phasma continued. “Arrogant. Pure chaos. He’s a danger to the order we’re trying to reinstate in the galaxy, to everything we’ve been working towards. I’m telling you because we have a shared goal — we both want to see Ren deposed or dead.” Hux’s wary eyes flitted away from her. “And because one of you will be the death of the other, there’s no doubt in my mind about that. At the end of the day, I’d rather be at the top with you than him.”

“Because I’m weaker,” Hux said, a self deprecating statement of fact this time. “I’m less of a threat to you.”

“Because you’re more predictable,” Phasma corrected. “And slightly better company.”

“Hm.” 

“Usually.”

Phasma crossed one leg over the over to stop herself from bouncing, right ankle to left knee. Rather than press the issue, she downed the remainder of her coffee in three long gulps and slammed it onto the table, making Hux jump slightly.

“How long have we known one another now, Armitage? Nine years? Ten?”

“Something like that.”

“Then you should know what it means by now to have my faith. There are few who have it.”

“I suppose my father thought he had your faith,” Hux commented. Phasma’s temperament seemed to shift. 

“Your father was my ticket into the First Order. Brendol was a tyrant, though, and I outgrew him. I didn’t need a superior. I needed an equal. Those are harder to come by.”

For the first time all night, Hux managed a smile. 

—

The rest of the evening passed easily, especially once the Bardottan brandy that Phasma kept locked in her liquor cabinet made an appearance. Phasma and Hux shared a rapport that extended beyond most alliances forged in the First Order. Theirs was a bond born of blood: Brendol Hux’s blood.

Hux’s body was tingly and warm by the time he stood to leave, and in standing, he realised how far his balance had deteriorated. “Bloody brandy,” he grumbled, as Phasma guffawed behind him. “I’m never drinking this” — Hux hiccuped — “stuff again.”

“Good night, Armitage,” Phasma said at the door, helping him slip his trench coat over his shoulders, and handing him a bag of his bloodied clothes. With the undershirt tucked into his black trousers and a coat around him, he looked a little less of a mess. 

Hux wasn’t sure if it was the inebriation that made him imagine the fondness in her voice. “Good night,” he said in return, and started off down the hall, more than ready to put such a bemusing day behind him.


	3. Wearing a Warning Sign

A week passed.

Then two.

From a viewing platform, Hux watched his men train with a scrutinous eye, hands clasped firmly behind his back. The room, if it could even be called a room, for its size verged on that of a small village, was lined on all sides by such platforms, which, in turn, were connected to a central tower by long, steel bridges. The central platform was enormous and tiered, the majority of its structure made of reinforced glass from which commanders peered out at every angle. Atop the glass, there was an open air dome that resembled a spinning top, to which the bridges connected.

It was a panoptic beauty, the likes of which few could hope to design, that more than a little resembled the tree-cities of Kashyyyk — and for good reason. There were those who believed that an autocracy’s purpose was to quell individuality, to quash deviation from the norm. They were fools. Deviation, in the right hands, bred innovation. Taking the savage, rudimentary ideas from lesser cultures and improving them for a higher purpose was one of the most important elements of a successful regime, Hux believed. A Wookiee would not recognise its home in the white, gleaming structure, and yet, they were inextricably linked. The Wookiees were implicated in the First Order’s design, in a design that would echo through the ages long after Kashyyyk was forgotten. 

There was a perverse beauty in it, Hux thought, as he paced slowly along a bridge toward the central tower, in how much the Wookiees would detest such an achievement. 

Hux only realised he was smiling to himself when he noticed one of his Lieutenant's frowning vaguely at him. Most likely they had never seen him smile before, or were trying to figure out whether that strange twist of his mouth really _ was _ a smile, or just another grimace. “What are you looking at?” he snapped, smile falling, lips rearranging into their usual dour, downturned curve. The Lieutenant, Becker or Beckmann or something like that — Hux did not care enough to recall — quickly mumbled something sheepish before scurrying off toward the central tower.

With a quiet _ hmph, _ Hux stopped where he was and looked down. The bridges were thirty or forty feet from the ground and hovered above the walls that separated one training section from another. The sections varied in size, depending on what sort of training they were intended, but most were around 30,000 square foot. There were sixty total, all in neat rows.

From his position, he could see fifteen or so soldiers jogging in neat lines while their lieutenant stood in the centre and shouted. Hux couldn’t hear what she was saying specifically, but it hardly mattered. He knew that most of the troops were not thinking about their burning muscles or the screaming of their superior, but of the hot shower that would soon follow, of comradely banter over bland food and, eventually, of their bed.

Hux knew because he had once been in their position.

There were times when he missed it, too; missed the discipline and order, missed carrying out orders rather than giving them. There was something to be said for the simplicity of training, despite never really excelling at any of it. 

Perhaps that was why he returned here so often when he had far more pressing matters to attend to. It was a reminder of the peace he was bringing to the galaxy. 

Of course, some thought his methods inhumane, but he truly believed, despite appearances, that humans wanted nothing more than a firm hand to guide them and a set of orders to carry out. Freedom was misery; choice, a burden. Hux has given all these people something to believe in, something to live and die for, something meaningful amidst all the chaos and clutter of _ being _.

Perhaps, though, he only returned here to see the long shadow he cast.

“General Hux,” came a crackling voice through his comlink, “we’re receiving a transmission request from Grand Admiral Sloane.”

A beat passed while he recovered from his reverie. “Very well,” he responded tersely. “Patch her through to my quarters. Tell her I’ll be five minutes.”

“Yes, Sir.” 

The loud, metallic sound of his polished black boots hitting the steel bridge echoed as he strode off. A few soldiers looked up, but Hux didn’t notice, already calculating his route. It would take him closer to three minutes to reach his quarters, but with the extra two minutes he could fetch a glass of water, drink it, and still have time to spare. Hux looked forward to that moment of silence in his quarters, a moment to let his guard down, and he savoured the thought of it as he hurried through the corridors of his ship, posture perfect despite his rush. 

Stormtroopers nodded to him respectfully as he passed them in the dark, blue-lit corridors, some uttering his name reverentially, others wishing him a good morning. A tight-lipped smile fixed itself to his face. Hux enjoyed the respect he received from his subordinates, but equally, he did not enjoy having to keep up his performance of power, at every hour of the day, no matter where he was. Eyes were always fixed upon him — such was the curse of leadership. 

Rounding the last corner to his abode, Hux glanced down to unclip the detachable part of his insignia from his wrist. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger idly, muscle memory guiding him the remaining steps to his door.

It slipped from between his fingers and he went to curse his clumsiness aloud, but before the breath could leave his body, a firm hand collided with his chest and pulled him into the shadows of a thin corridor designed for use only by droids. The sound of his insignia clinking against the cold, hard floor registered only once his blaster had been torn from his hand by the Force and his pale eyes met the bored looking face of Kylo Ren.

Hux could not decide between relief and alarm.

“_Ren _.”

“Hello, General,” Ren responded. “It’s been a while.”

Hux sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I see you everyday.”

“You know what I mean.”

Belatedly, Hux noticed the vice-like grip holding him in place and tore his arm from Ren’s grasp, banging his elbow against the metal wall in the process. “Are the theatrics _ really _necessary?” he hissed as quietly as he could, not entirely sure why he was whispering. 

“I was beginning to think you were avoiding me,” Ren continued, as if Hux hadn’t spoken, and if his intent was to make Hux bristle, he succeeded.

“I don’t know what you think I do all day, but I do have a fair number of bullets on my to-do list that rank higher than you.” Ren blinked down at him pityingly. “In fact,” Hux added, voice rising with his ire, “My daily shit places higher on the list than—” 

The sound of voices nipped Hux’s fury in the bud, and his heart jumped into his throat once more. Ren seemed to sense Hux’s fight-or-flight response before even Hux did, because Ren’s fingers snaked around his wrists and pinned him in place against the wall again. They were so close now that Hux thought he could feel the other man’s heartbeat against his own, and the sensation made him swallow nervously. 

Hux projected a curse upon Kylo Ren out into the universe. There were few places he would hate to be discovered by a subordinate more than in a droid alley, pressed against his nemesis. 

If Ren was bothered at all, he didn’t show it. The intensity with which he continued to watch Hux did not waver in the slightest. Ren watched Hux like a birdwatcher might observe a convor. Or, Hux realised, like a momong might observe a convor. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

The voices, muffled by stormtrooper helmets, were getting closer, and Hux knew they would have to wait it out. He supposed he could make a break for it, act like Ren had been harassing him (which, Hux reminded himself, was the absolute truth), and disappear into his room while there were witnesses to stop Ren delaying him any longer. The chances of escaping were slim, though, given the way Ren was observing his every twitch and blink, and even if they weren’t, Hux was not entirely sure he wanted everyone to know he’d become a sustained object of interest to Ren.

There was no situation in which Hux won this particular round.

Bitter, Hux looked away from Ren, sideways, toward the thin sliver of corridor that could be seen from where they stood, concealed by darkness. Hux had always detested the low-lit design of the _ Finalizer _. It was brooding and sulky, a permanent state of nighttime that made him feel trapped and paranoid. If Hux had designed the entire ship, it would have been sleeker and brighter, but if there were ever a time he was glad to not have done so, it was now. 

The voices were beginning to grow intelligible as they ambled nearer still. 

“—every morning, you know?” 

“Yeah, I know, but orders are orders.”

“I just don’t think it’s fair that 3493 gets the late shift because his mother is the head of catering. It’s pure nepotism! It’s outrageous, 6.”

“Yeah.”

“And, you know, I wouldn’t even be bothered if 3493 didn’t also get extra cartons of blue milkshake—”

“9—”

“Yeah?”

“Be quiet a second.”

They halted just short of the droid hallway. Hux could just see the white boots of one of them peeking out beyond the dark line of the corner. 

“Huh?”

“Look, there — what is it?”

Hux felt his breathing stop. Although he knew logically that it was a juvenile response, he screwed his eyes shut and turned his head away, instincts tricking him into thinking, briefly, that if he couldn’t see them then they couldn’t see him. 

“It’s, uh.” One of them bent down, the position of his voice dropping drastically, confusing Hux. “It’s an insignia, I think. Looks like General Hux’s.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yeah. I guess he dropped it.”

“Yeah.” A beat of silence passed, though it felt like millennia, during which Hux opened his eyes again. Although he’d intended to turn and glance outwards again, he somehow managed to lock eyes with Ren instead. It felt like being sucked into a black hole. “Hey, isn’t that the door to his quarters?”

“Which?”

“That big one, idiot.”

“Oh, right, yeah. Yeah, maybe.”

“Not maybe. It’s definitely his digs.”

“Alright. If you’re so sure, why don’t you test his insignia on the door.”

A scoff. 

Hux thought he saw the corner of Ren’s mouth twitch slightly. 

“You know there’s a retinal scan, too, right?”

“What? No way.”

“Yes way. I’m not about to get sent to reconditioning just to prove a point.”

“Pussy,” the other murmured, and yes, Hux was sure of it, Ren almost smiled. His gaze flitted across Ren’s face, repressing a smirk of his own at the absurdity of their situation, trying not to think of Ren’s long eyelashes, visible against his high cheekbones even in the dim light.

“Whatever. Just put it back down. Hux will find it eventually.”

“You don’t think we should hand it in?”

“And risk looking like we stole it in the first place? Uh, yeah, great idea.”

“_ Fine _.” A quiet clank reverberated through the dark passageways. “They might have given us a reward,” he groused. The stormtroopers came into view only briefly as they passed by Ren and Hux’s cramped hiding spot, but luckily, neither thought to glance into the darkness. 

“Fat chance. Only think Hux would give you is a limp.”

“Hm. Kinky.”

“Gross, dude.”

Their voices faded out of comprehension once again, and Hux realised he was biting his lip. Whether from anxiety or amusement or something else entirely, even he could not quite tell, though it quickly fell from his face when he remembered himself, and fell even further when Ren spoke.

“You could have called for help,” he said, and Hux glowered. “You could have,” Ren repeated calmly. 

“I have a reputation to maintain. One that doesn’t include being caught fraternising with the likes of you.” 

“Fraternising,” Ren repeated, amusement not quite reaching his eyes. “We’re not fraternising yet.” His voice was low.

Hux bit back the desire to spit something derisive at Ren, but the words wouldn’t form on his tongue. Instead, he said, “I have somewhere to be.”

“Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you don’t want me at all.”

“Well observed—” Hux said, attempting to extricate himself from Ren’s grasp. 

“Perhaps you just want to keep lying awake imagining Snoke fucking me.”

Hux stilled, the dizzying tension of that day come back in stark clarity. “Those are your fantasies, not mine,” he retorted, sounding more confident than he felt. 

“I told you mine already.” Ren leant into Hux even further, until they were impossibly close but still not close enough, and the material between their bodies felt like it took up all the space in the universe. “Mine are about you,” he whispered against the shell of Hux’s ear, breath tickling the fine hair at the nape of his neck. Hux jolted involuntarily at the softness of the sensation, a small noise leaving him, and it was all he could do not to scream bloody murder, frustrated by his treacherous body. 

Ren’s head shifted, retreating just an inch, and Hux could see his face again, so close that his eyelashes almost touched Ren’s skin. Ren’s eyes had slipped shut, and when he spoke, something wild simmered beneath his carefully controlled features. “Why don’t you tell me some of yours, General?” 

The low thrum of the Force pulsated against his eardrums, and Hux’s thoughts were drawn from him, unbidden, like a snake charmed by a charmer. Hux wanted Ren in a myriad of strange and shameful ways, and he knew that Ren could sense it, though he didn’t understand the Force well enough to know exactly how much Ren could glean. Perhaps it was just that base throb of need, the maddening tightening in his gut that ached. That was incriminating enough, but he could practically hear Ren’s laughter if he delved any deeper.

Fresh fear and shame rolled through him, and his jaw stuttered open and closed soundlessly. Ren’s eyes opened suddenly, surprise alight in them, his brow now a hard, frowning line. 

For a moment, Hux thought Ren was going to hurt him, but instead he was asked, in a quiet and careful voice, “What are you so afraid of?”, as though Ren had reached into the darkest depths of the craggiest cracks in Hux’s heart and pulled something cold and shivering and primordial into the burning, yearning daylight. 

“I—” Hux began, as his comlink chirped to life and the heady thrum of the Force stopped simultaneously.

“General Hux?” came the unsure voice. “Grand Admiral Sloane is—”

Hux cut the link with a touch of his finger. “Fuck!” he hissed, wrenching his body roughly from Ren’s grasp and stumbling into the hallway. His heartbeat was so loud that he was afraid Ren could hear it. Even worse, though, was the tingling of his skin where Ren had held him, and his certainty that somehow Ren could sense that, too. 

Ren hadn’t moved, had barely even looked away from where Hux’s face had been moments ago. His dark hair was wild and unkempt, framing his long, pale face in curls that disappeared into the shadows. 

“I’m not afraid,” Hux said, the most bare-faced lie ever uttered. “We will talk about this,” Hux said, jaw clenched, “but not here, not now. Contrary to your apparently _ unshakeable _ belief, I do have far more pressing matters than your cock.” 

Shadows obscured Ren’s face entirely until he looked up. Lights of steel blue fell in stripes across his eyes like the bars of a cage. He said nothing. There was nothing that needed to be said. Instead, he watched Hux expectantly, that bored look creeping onto his face again, the one that Hux was beginning to recognise as another one of Ren’s masks. 

“Meet me in the _ The Lounge _ at the end of the day,” Hux added, as though it were an afterthought, taking pleasure in the way a muscle in Ren’s face twitched. Rarely did Hux get to give the orders, despite his technically outranking Ren.

When he turned to pick up his insignia from the ground, he found it already floating in mid air, and Hux bit back a huff. He glanced sideways at Ren, whose expression remained stony, before plucking it deftly out of the air and re-affixing it to his jacket sleeve. 

“Until then, General.”

Hux did not look back.

When the door slid shut behind him with a definitive sound, Hux leant against it for support, facade falling away in the brief moment of solitude. His eyes slipped shut but he could only see Ren’s face haunting him still, peering out from the shadows, dark irises unusually bright in the slanted luminescence, as though lit by ghosts. 

The sight had imprinted itself on Hux’s mind, but he didn’t have time to wonder whether it was caused by another one of Ren’s magic tricks or his own obsession.

“Admiral Sloane,” Hux said in his most commanding tone, and her blue hologram flickered to life in the centre of his conference table. “My apologies for the delay.” 

“I should think so, too, General,” replied Sloane, “I hope you have a good excuse.”


	4. Wait Until the World is Mine

It was late by the time Hux finished all his work for the day — later than he’d thought it would be. His sense of time had gotten lost somewhere between the fifth draft of an upcoming speech, floods of messages from senior officers requesting meetings, and preparations for the new arrival of whom Sloane had informed him. There was never a lull in the constant onslaught of duties, but there were days that tried to pull him apart at the seams with more force than others. Today, everyone wanted a piece of him.

Hux stood up from his desk and shuffled over to the opposite corner of the room, slumping into his armchair. 

“Lights, thirty percent,” he mumbled. “Shutters, open.” 

The A.I. obeyed. He watched drowsily as his large view port opened and the fluorescent lights that kept him awake began to dim. The stars observed him with disinterest, their celestial bodies far away and preoccupied with far more important things. Still, Hux liked them. They were consistent, at least, and there was something strangely comforting about their cosmic indifference. They didn’t have to fight tooth and claw for their power like he did. They didn’t have to spend their life jumping through inane bureaucratic loops. They just burnt and burnt until they didn’t, commanding attention without ever really wanting it.

Hux stifled a yawn with the back of his hand, noting unhappily that his eyes were raw and scratchy from a day of having to stare at screens, that his body was tired, his mind even more so. His datapad read 20:09 when he glanced down at it. If he fell asleep now, he would wake in an hour and would not sleep again until the following night. 

The dreaded thought of having to trudge through tomorrow without sleep was just about the only thing that could coax him out of his armchair again. It was better to keep going until he physically couldn’t, he mused, as that seemed the only way he could sleep through the night these days. Besides, he had no desire to fall asleep here in his uniform, with his belt digging into his ribs and his shirt collar almost tight enough to cut off circulation. 

And he supposed he’d be lying if he said he had forgotten about his rendevouz with Ren.

With sleep off the table for the moment, the possibility of a stiff drink, the gentle ambience of white noise chatter, and the pursuit of a strange but curious new factor in his personal life seemed a decent substitute. 

The thought of Ren sent a chill up his spine that he had been suppressing all day, and Hux decided he enjoyed it, despite the mixed feelings about the specifics and the anxiety that accompanied this kind of uncharted territory. Hux was a man of few thrills due to their distracting nature, but he recognised the importance of a distraction once in a while. It would make him more productive, in the long term, if he could scratch an itch that was demanding his attention.

At least, that was what he told himself as he showered, brushed his teeth, pulled a black turtleneck jumper over his head. Hux had never much liked uncontrolled variables but he reminded himself that the purpose of this evening’s meeting was to turn Ren into a controlled variable instead.

It was not, he told himself fiercely, a date.

Hux inspected his reflection assiduously, shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back, hardly recognising himself without his uniform anymore. The turtleneck was smaller than he remembered. It must’ve been years since he’d worn it last. It looked silly, juvenile even. There was nothing to disguise how skinny he was. How effeminate. It was no wonder Ren wanted to break him. Despite the hard, bony lines of his arms and shoulders, of his waist, he looked delicate and effete. He saw himself how his father had once seen him, and the disgusted grimace that marred his expression looked just as his father’s, too. 

It was 21:14 by the time he changed out of the turtleneck and into a long sleeve black shirt and straight leg black jeans, answered a few errant messages on his datapad, and added more gel to subdue the unruly strands of hair that had fallen out of place. Ren might not even be there, he reminded himself, as he donned the more casual and less used of his two trench coats. Hux had been purposely vague about the time. 

Still, he was out the door now. If Ren wasn’t there, then someone else he knew would be. Perhaps even Phasma. And if they weren’t, he was entirely capable of enjoying his own company for an hour or so. Surely.

Stormtroopers bowed their heads to him as he passed, and he wondered idly what sort of things they said about him behind his back, and then he wondered whether he wanted to know at all. Some things were best ignored. Maybe that was the reason Ren was so chronically unhinged — maybe he couldn’t help himself from finding out exactly what others thought of him. There was always a temptation that accompanied any kind of power to overindulge in it as one might overindulge in food, or sex, or drugs. Hux was partial to a little asceticism with his power, though it was not a position that many superior officers took. 

The low hum of laughter and clinking glass led Hux through the dark, winding hallways toward the wide door of _ The Lounge. _ Outside, the security guard leant against the wall, scrolling through some kind of amusing app on his pocket-sized datapad, judging by his smile. He was a broad but squat man, at least half a foot shorter than Hux, with a sharp jaw and round features. His grey eyes widened when he saw Hux, though he tried to hide it.

“Watching cat holos again, Vullen?” Hux asked dryly, as the man in question pocketed his datapad, the twinkle in his eye the only indication that he was joking.

“Never, sir,” was the response. Vullen’s crow’s feet wrinkled with suppressed mirth. “I haven’t seen you here in awhile.” 

“Rather busy,” Hux said in his clipped accent, coming to a halt in front of the door, looking sideways at the man. “What with Snoke. And Starkiller.” 

“Of course.” In opening the door for Hux, Vullen moved closer to him than was strictly appropriate, coyness still simmering beneath his expression. “If you need anything, you know where I am, General,” he added.

Hux resisted the bark of laughter that rose in his throat, instead holding Vullen’s gaze as he swept past the smaller man and into the bar. Vullen had never been subtle about his desire, and Hux was not entirely sure why he had not put a stop to it. While the officer was by no means unattractive, Hux had no intention of indulging the man’s fantasies about being fucked by _ the _General Hux. He supposed he enjoyed the attention. He supposed he enjoyed the possibility that he could, if he wanted to, do anything he wanted to the man, anywhere, any time. 

But — asceticism. 

The doors closed behind him, and the buzz of the room enveloped Hux.

It was enormous, really, with a low ceiling on one side that managed to make it seem more intimate. And it wasn’t really one room, technically speaking. It branched off here and there, with tight corridors and winding staircases leading to more space and more lights and more alcohol. More people. A dizzying amount of people. 

More than he’d expected.

Hux gave the main room a cursory glance, then, unable to locate the silhouette for which he searched, ambled toward the bar. Already he was attracting a few glances, even a stare or two, from interested parties. Mostly interested in his sudden presence in a place he rarely frequented, though there were also a few officers whose gazes lingered a little too long on his body. Without shoulder pads and thick belts to square him off, he felt naked and vulnerable. He swallowed thickly as the loud music crowded his mind and made it difficult to think, pushing through the throngs of people to reach the bar. 

“Uh, give me—” he began to say when the bartender looked at him expectantly.

“HUH?” the bartender shouted, frowning at Hux as he ran a cloth over a glass absent-mindedly. 

“I said— I SAID— GIVE ME A SHOT OF SOMETHING.”

“A SHOT OF WHAT?”

“OF ANYTHING!”

“Hey! There’s a queue here, pal!”

Hux turned his head primly to fix the speaker with his best glare, and felt his heart sink irritably at the sight of Beckman’s stupid, round face.

“General _ Hux _?” he exclaimed, though it was barely audible over the din. Hux only looked at him witheringly, waiting for the cretin to slither away in shame.

To his dismay, Beckman did no such thing. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea you were--” Hux’s pale eyes narrowed impatiently. “Let me— let me buy you a drink to apologise!” Beckman was only a few decibels from shouting now, but his deep voice managed to pierce the monotonous chatter around them without excessive volume.

The longer Hux peered at the man, the more convinced he became that the man was already fairly inebriated. Normally, Becker was a restrained man, even if he only showed that restraint in Hux’s presence. 

“I said, can I buy you a drink to apologise—?” he said again, clearly mistaking Hux’s silence for incomprehension. The question hung awkwardly between them as Hux considered his options. More than anything, he wanted to walk out the door, change into his pyjamas, and go to sleep. Wistfully, he glanced toward the door and his heart jumped into his throat.

There stood Kylo Ren, having just entered, the door slamming shut behind him, a noiseless sound amidst the shouts of the patrons. For a moment, Hux thought himself mistaken — that it was just someone who looked like Ren, because it couldn’t be him, surely not, standing there in his civvies and scowling as the deafening noise gradually died down and those nearby turned to look at him. If Hux had thought himself out of place, it was nothing compared to Ren’s conspicuousness. 

Hux had to fight a smile. 

Ren asked those in his immediate vicinity a question that Hux was too far away to catch, hushed conversations all starting at once when it became clear the man wasn’t here to tear through them with a sabre. The question became obvious once someone turned to point at Hux, and suddenly everyone was staring at Hux instead, but the intensity with which Ren homed in on him was far greater than the rest of the looks in the bar combined. 

As nonchalantly as he could, Hux leant against the bar and looked around with a bemused frown. Monotonous music and the distant voices of those not privy to the scene filled the silence for him, until he, at length, asked the small but growing audience, “Would anyone like to explain what _ exactly _is so enthralling about two of your senior officers discussing business over a drink?” Hux’s sober, curt tone cut easily through the mutters and mumbles. It was one of his finest skills, in fact; to make himself heard against all odds. He had been honing it for a long time.

Ren was making his way toward him with long, decisive strides by the time Hux dared look in his direction again. The whispers surrounding them grew louder, but the atmosphere did not quite reach its previously raucous heights. Ren’s long hair bounced as he moved, his expression that ridiculously intense petulance that he always managed to school into something vaguely condescending. Hux tried not to let his gaze linger too long on his outfit (which was, truth be told, not all that different from his regular uniform) lest he appear too obviously curious.

“What are you doing?” Ren asked when he drew near, somehow managing to make it sound like an authoritative command and a childish whine at the same time. Ren seemed to tower over both of them, despite all three men being roughly the same height.

“Beckman here is buying me a drink,” Hux said, because he couldn’t resist.

“It’s Beckby,’ Becker insisted, horrified, but if either of them heard his words, they certainly weren’t registered. They were far too distracted by the silent game playing out between them, in which Beckman was a mere pawn.

“I see.” Hux waited for his response, watching his expression intently. Perhaps a flicker of jealousy, or else confusion. Something — anything — for Hux to obsess over when he lay awake at night, something that proved Ren cared what Hux did and with whom he did it. Something that Hux could use as evidence, as though he were a court of law deciding Ren’s fate.

Instead, Ren turned to Becker, said, “I’ll have what he’s having,” and strode away. 

Hux could only hope his deflation was not visible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god I've had this scene written FOREVER but it was 7000 words and still unfinished so I've had to split it up into smaller chapters. enjoy! and thanks for all the comments so far <3


	5. Visions I Vandalise

When Hux finally escaped Beckby’s presence, with not one but four drinks to show for it, he turned his attention to discovering where Ren had stormed off to. The world seemed to pulsate around him as faceless bodies milled about in the dark lighting, laughing and jeering one another, talking about every meaningless thing under the sun. The appearance (and disappearance) of Ren seemed to no longer be of much interest to any of them. 

There really was no sign of Ren amongst the crowd, though, and Hux began to feel rather silly standing there by himself with four drinks and a scowl.

“I didn’t think shots were your speed, General.”

Liquor splattered onto the cuffs of his clean shirt when he jumped slightly at Ren’s voice, who had appeared beside him. Hux turned to look at him disdainfully.

“I suppose it was wishful thinking to imagine you’d make yourself useful by finding us somewhere to sit,” he retorted, without missing a beat. 

“There isn’t anywhere to sit.”

“I hardly thought such a minor hindrance would stop you, Commander,” goaded Hux. He attempted to pass two of the drinks to Ren, who accepted one and seemed unaffected by Hux’s glower. “They’re not,” he added, belatedly registering Ren’s comment, “my _ speed _. Becker insisted.”

“Beckby,” Ren corrected, and something like amusement flashed behind his eyes that caught Hux entirely off-guard, but it disappeared so quickly he might as well have imagined it. As Hux scrambled for a similarly irritating dig, Ren took the opportunity to knock back his shot with a straight face. “Come on,” he instructed, sinking back into his usual dour expression, before placing the empty shot glass on a table, earning a glare from the patron seated there, and wandering off into the crowd once again.

For a moment, Hux only stood there awkwardly clutching the shots. He had a bad feeling about this — about Kylo Ren. Three years of working together and Hux still knew so little about the man. They had always avoided one another; aware, he supposed, of their explosively different personalities. Perhaps that had been for the best. Perhaps, after all, this was a mistake, and Hux ought to put the drinks down, walk out the bar, and go back to his comfortable, monotonous existence of filing reports and barking orders.

To his credit, he almost did. His fingers itched and he flexed them around the glass just to prove that he could, to prove he still had some control over his faculties. He looked toward the door again and got a brief glimpse of Vullen, holding the door open for new patrons. Idly, he wondered what would happen if he abandoned an evening that was rapidly spiralling out of his comfort zone and took Vullen to bed instead — closed his eyes and fucked him from behind as the man moaned for more. It wouldn’t be so bad. There were plenty of ways to get his kicks that didn’t involve fraternising with his co-commander.

Gods, but Vullen was so _ boring _.

The reminder that he had other options was, at least, a little comfort. 

Hux turned his attention to surveying the crowd with his sharp eyes, and, after a few moments of severe scowling, Hux spotted Ren ascending a spiral staircase, his long, cape-like coat billowing around him. Finding his mouth suddenly dry, Hux swallowed thickly. 

Twelve hours ago, he’d been crammed into a droid alley with Ren breathing down his neck like he wanted to devour him there and then. The memory, which he’d purposely compartmentalised (read: repressed) for a later date, came back to him in a rush of heat and breathlessness. At the same moment, Ren’s eyes locked with his own. It was only for a split second, and then Ren was gone from sight, but the intensity of it — the intimacy — struck Hux like a blow to the chest. Despite the distance, Ren’s presence lingered in the back of his mind.

Hoping that nobody was watching, Hux pinched two of the drinks between his thumb and forefinger and used his free hand to knock back a foul-smelling shot. Hux blanched at the taste, hiding his gag behind the hand still holding the glass.

“Fuck,” Hux groused, eyes watering, as he stepped from the wall and trailed after Ren as coolly as he could, avoiding eye contact with all who attempted it. Heads continued to turn and stare at him once he’d reached the top of the stairs, but there were far more eyes on Ren ousting three merry officers from their booth seats. 

“—have important _ First Order _ business to discuss,” Ren was saying as Hux approached, and all three pairs of eyes turned to him, then to the two remaining shots, and back to Ren. They all clearly wanted to argue, but thought better of it. “Of course, sirs,” one muttered, and they slid out from the booth one by one, expressions barely concealing their annoyance. 

Booth seats, Hux happened to know, were particularly prized seats in _ The Lounge _. The first floor of the bar was half the size of the ground floor so that it overlooked the main dance floor, and it was lined with glass windows that stretched from the table to the ceiling. The booths sat along the edge of the glass, offering a view over the entire establishment whilst maintaining a high level of privacy. They were tall and curved with a small entrance that hid the majority of the inside from sight. Most patrons had to arrive extremely early to grab one. 

The entrance to the booth was small enough that only one person could fit through at once, so Ren went first, taking the shots from Hux once he’d seated himself and placing them on the table so Hux could slide in opposite him.

“Well, this is cosy,” Hux mumbled as he settled himself, eyeing the stains on the table with disdain.

The other good thing about this spot, it was important to note, was how much outside noise it blocked out. Hux could almost hear himself think again over the muffled, thudding music. From where he sat, he could see the rest of the bar milling about beneath him through the glass. He wondered what time it was now. Probably close to 23:00, judging by how drunk everyone was. 

“I thought you might prefer somewhere less conspicuous, General.”

Hux turned his head to see Ren leaning nonchalantly against the cushioned booth, his legs spread wide and domineering, hands resting on his thighs. Between them were two shots still. Hux supposed he wouldn’t be crawling into bed for quite a while.

“I confess I hadn’t thought of the rumours our presence would spark, but I’m sure those rumours existed already,” Hux responded carefully, trying to hide his defensiveness. Then, perhaps somewhat less carefully, he added, “I wanted to do this somewhere public.” 

Ren leant forward slightly, but his expression remained as neutral as ever. “Do what?” he asked, voice restrained but frayed at the edges. Hux felt himself swallow before he even thought to.

“_Talk _,” he said, and Ren leant back again, sighing and shifting his focus away from Hux, feigning boredom, though Hux knew now that it was just for show. Ren wouldn't have come if he weren't interested.

“Alright,” Ren agreed, looking back at Hux with far more apathy than he had previously, “then talk.” His fingers darted out to snatch another shot from the table, and within seconds it was slammed back down, empty. 

Hux didn’t bother to repress his eyes’ desire to roll upward in their sockets. “I don’t have a monologue prepared, Ren.” 

“Really, General? That does surprise me.”

“Perhaps it would surprise you less if you knew anything about me.”

“I know plenty about you.”

Hux’s nails drummed irritably against the shot glass as he wondered how far to push this childish game. The look in Ren’s eye was practically begging him to take the bait, and, while it pained him to give into such precociousness, Hux had to admit that he was curious as to what Ren thought he knew.

So he leant back, crossed one leg delicately over the other, and capitulated. “_ Rea-_lly?”

Ren seemed to take this as a victory, though Hux had no intention of conceding the round just yet. “Yes,” Ren said, crossing his arms over his chest, smug despite the veneer of apathy. “You were born the bastard son of Brendol Hux on Arkanis, on the fifteenth of Welona, one year ABY," he began, as though reading disinterestedly from a file at a meeting. Not that Ren ever showed up to those, let alone led a briefing.

"Your father considered your very existence an inexcusable blemish on his pristine reputation. I know you had a half-sister, Beatrice, whom your father adored, in part because her blood was purer.” His dark eyes were unreadable. “I know they abused you. I know you’re good friends with Captain Phasma. You spend more time with her than any other officer on this ship but still don’t, I imagine, really, actually trust her.”

The noise Hux made was part way between a derisive snort and a shallow gasp of shock. “Half baseless assumption, half biographical information straight from my _ FO _dossier,” he retorted smoothly. “You’ll have to do better than that, Ren.”

Without missing a beat, Ren added, “Possibly you trust her plants more than her. You talk to them when you think she’s not listening.”

The sneer died in Hux’s throat, his already-translucent skin turning a shade paler. A few beats of shocked silence passed before Hux steeled himself. “How could you possibly know that?” he hissed. 

To both his surprise and his bemusement, Ren smiled at him. It was a sort of half-hearted, discomforting imitation of a smile; a sick, toying twitch of his lips, but a smile nonetheless, and one that served to push Hux’s grasp on the evening even further off-kilter. 

Hux only stared at him, mouth agape. 

“More drinks,” Ren announced, slamming the palm of his hand against the table loud enough to make Hux jump. “Finish your last round.”

Hux only glared at his shot as Ren extricated himself from the table and disappeared for — yes, Hux was counting — the third time that evening. 

“Fucking, kriffing, shitting hell,” he announced, letting his head fall back against the seat with a dull thud that only made his head spin more. “Ow.” Gods, his head really was spinning. Liquor never really had agreed with him, he supposed.

How could Ren— How could he possibly know— Such an inane and private detail? Certainly, Phasma wouldn’t have told him. She harboured no menial dislike of Ren.

Thinking of Phasma automatically made him reach for his datapad. At this point, it was practically a Pavlovian response. Sure enough, below the time (which read 22:34) were several messages.

2 NEW HOLO COMMS [PRIVATE CHANNEL] ::ENCRYPTED DATA::

1 NEW HOLO COMM [PUBLIC CHANNEL] ::TEREX::

1 NEW TEXT COMM [PRIVATE CHANNEL] ::ENCRYPTED DATA::

Hux’s eyes caught on the single public channel communication, his scowl deepening. Nobody sent anything via public channels in the First Order. Idly, Hux grasped the shot glass delicately between his finger and thumb and twirled it thoughtfully. With his other hand, he flicked through various screens and passcodes to retrieve his encrypted messages. 

The first were purportedly urgent, signalled to him by the small, red exclamation mark within the hexagonal First Order sigil beside the subject line, but they were irrelevant to Hux’s responsibilities. It was standard procedure for senior officers to copy him into important emails to keep him abreast of everything. He got dozens per week, and few required his immediate attention. After flicking quickly through the text transcription of the holos, he decided that these were of little consequence.

The third was a text message from Phasma, as Hux had expected. It read:

_ A, _

_ Stopped by to drop off those files on T you requested, but no answer. Assuming you’ve passed out. Hopefully intentionally and in bed rather than unintentionally and on the floor somewhere. _

_ You can come and get the files tomorrow, I’ll leave them with L while I’m gone. _

_ P. _

Hux smiled wryly at the words, and tapped out his response with a thumb:

_ L will be delighted to see me, I’m sure. An apt punishment for missing your call, I suppose. _

His thumb hovered hesitantly over the datapad as he considered how honest to be.

_ I am not passed out, you’ll be glad to hear. Patronising _ The Lounge _ , in fact. Although, I’ve yet to pay for anything myself. _

Hux was smirking as he ticked ‘encrypt’ and sent the comm off. 

The shot glass between his fingers glowed faintly in the dim light, catching his attention. Nothing that could make a drink glow was worth putting anywhere near his tongue, Hux decided, and, with a furtive glance out of the booth, poured the liquid onto the floor beneath the seat for some cleaner to deal with.

A shadow fell across the table as the glass clinked against it.

“General Armitage Algernon Hux, I take it?” 

Expecting Ren, Hux jumped at the unfamiliar voice, knocking the glass over and scrambling to pick it up again quickly. When he looked up, Hux saw a striking man leaning nonchalantly against the booth. The tall, broad man looked down at him with a smirk. Hux recognised the ocean grey eyes and thin moustache immediately, but the incongruousness of his presence shocked him, and he struggled to close his jaw.

“Agent Terex?” he said, face pinched together in confusion. 

“Please,” said the stranger, lips parting to reveal a shark-like grin. “Just Terex.”

“What are you doing here, agent?” Hux responded primly, drawing himself up into a rigid posture. 

Terex’s gaze flitted from Hux’s face to the empty shot glasses to Hux’s datapad. “You didn’t get my holo, General?” the man teased, milking Hux’s discomfort for all it was worth. “I invited all the senior officers out for drinks.”

“I must have missed it,” Hux said, bristling, but beneath the immediate irritation, panic clawed at him. 

_ All _the senior officers? In the bar? Right now?

“A shame,” Terex said. “I was looking forward to meeting you most of all, General Hux.”

“Is that so?”

Hux never thought he’d be relieved to see Kylo Ren appear.

“Don’t waste your energy, he’s not that interesting,” he heard Ren say, and oh, thank god his relief was only fleeting.

Terex turned to observe Ren, his eyes wide with mischief.

“You're in my way.”

“_ The _ Kylo Ren?” he said, as though Ren hadn’t spoken. “Well, I see I’m interrupting a real meeting of the minds.”

With an overly theatrical gesture, he stepped aside to let Ren past. Ren deposited the drinks and dropped into his seat, still looking bored, though Hux could see the tension in his jaw.

“Agent Terex," Hux began diplomatically, plastering a smile to his tired face. "Ren and I have important matters to discuss.”

“Of course, of course,” Terex said, eyes widening in mock submission, his hands flying out in a pacifying gesture. “If you finish your, ah, business early, come and find me. I’ll let the other officers know you're here, too.”

Hux had to bite back the screech of _ NO! _that almost burst into his throat. 

“You know, I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks bars are the perfect place to conduct business meetings. Between you and I,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially and crossing his arms over his chest, speaking directly to Hux as though Ren weren’t there, “it’s been quite enlightening already. A little alcohol and you see everyone for who they really are, behind all the posturing. Beckby, for example, has been singing like a bird all evening."

Hux's smile, which had been slipping toward a sneer as Terex spoke, now faltered entirely. His eyes were locked with Hux's intensely, daring him to break contact first. 

If Ren's eyes were a dark, alluring abyss, Terex's were a bright beacon, a beam of pure light that made Hux feel exposed. 

“Bars are the perfect place to decipher dangerous friends from bosom enemies, wouldn’t you agree?” His eyes slid surreptitiously toward Ren. “Just overflowing with sordid little secrets and juicy tidbits.” Briefly, his gaze flitted to their drinks, and then returned to Hux’s pale, glowering face. “You find out all sorts of useful information that you don’t expect to find.” 

Hux risked a glance at Ren, who was still feigning boredom despite the clench of his jaw.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you both,” Terex said cheerily, pale eyes boring into Hux. “I’ll see you at that ghastly formal meeting tomorrow morning.”

With that, Terex hummed in amusement and disappeared from view. 

Hux’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he leant back against the seat again, wondering why he’d come here. When he tore his gaze away from the ceiling, he saw that Ren was smirking to himself as he nursed his drink. 

“Please enlighten me, Ren. What could possibly be amusing about that mortifying encounter?”

“For one,” Ren said, sombering slightly as he shifted his position, “I won’t be at that meeting. And for two, the First Order’s entire senior staff will be hearing about the fact we’re fucking before we’ve actually—”

“Gods,” Hux snapped, “Do you really have to be so crude?”

Ren shrugged. “You asked.”

“Why aren’t you at the meeting anyway? It’s compulsory.”

“Compulsory for you,” Ren said, smug. “Snoke needs me.”

“I bet he does.”

Ren just looked at him, flat and dangerous. Hux felt phantom fingers touching his throat. A warning. “Now who’s being crude.”

When Hux swallowed, his throat flexed against the light pressure being applied to it. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the adrenaline from their encounter with Terex, or the intensity of Ren’s dark gaze, but Hux suddenly wanted to see how far he could push it. 

“Snoke’s special little boy,” Hux drew out slowly in his clipped voice. “His favourite pet. Does he give you a note of absence every time you scurry off to see him? _ To whom it may concern, Kylo is excused from this high priority meeting because I have a huge, throbbing problem that needs his attention more urgently— _”

Like clockwork, the phantom fingers slid around his neck and squeezed his windpipe tightly. Ren sipped his drink nonchalantly. 

“Careful, General, that your tasteless jokes are not misconstrued as disloyalty to our Supreme Leader.”

Hux’s face contorted into distaste, but after a few beats of silence, the pressure at his throat dissipated. Reflexively, he reached up to rub his own fingertips against it gently. It hadn’t been rough enough to bruise, but it had nonetheless prompted his cock to twitch and harden with interest.

“My _ loyalty _,” Hux spat, trying not to wonder if Ren’s powers could sense his bodily response, “is to Grand Admiral Sloane.”

“A loyalty you will come to regret.” There was no sneer on Ren’s face, only the bored conviction of a psychic sick of repeating the same rote lines.

But Hux didn’t want to talk politics tonight, especially not when he feared Ren was right. 

The ire he’d felt moments ago seeped out of him the longer he thought about Sloane and the warring First Order factions; this miniature civil war playing out around them. Hux hated it, hated the disorder of it, the secrecy. 

“Maybe,” he said eventually.

Sensing the tedium of Hux’s spiral, Ren leant over the table to slide Hux’s drink closer to the man in question. “Until then, you’d better drink up.”

“What is it?” Hux asked suspiciously, making a show of turning his nose up at it even though it already looked a hundred times more appetising than the shots with which he’d been saddled.

“Tatooine Sunset.”

“And yours?” he added, noticing the difference.

“Spiced rum and brownfizz.”

“Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?” 

“That you’d peg me for a cocktail man.”

Ren snorted with patronising amusement. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I asked the bartender for his least favourite drink on the menu.” 

As Hux repressed another eye roll, Ren hid his smirk behind another gulp of his drink. Then, after considering Hux for a long moment, he said, “Is your middle name really Algernon?”

Hux, who had been sipping his own sickly sweet beverage with a grimace, met Ren’s gaze sharply. “You heard that, did you? Just how long were you standing there before you intervened?”

In response, Ren only raised an eyebrow expectantly. 

“Yes,” Hux said. “Algernon is one of my middle names.”

“That’s certainly not in your _ FO _dossier.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s most certainly not.”

Quieting, Hux glanced through the gap in their booth and peered into the crowd. Terex was nowhere to be seen. He raised his drink to his lips and took another saccharine sip, a frown indenting his forehead. “Still, he added eventually, “it’s hardly impressive. A name is nothing in the grand scheme of things.”

Ren hummed his agreement, and Hux’s gaze returned to him. The intensity of Ren’s deep, dark eyes made him shiver a little. Sometimes looking at him felt like falling into an empty space, like vertigo. 

“I wonder,” Ren began over his own drink, “why on Coruscant he’d want to impress _ you _of all people.” 

While it was a statement intended to condescend, Hux could not deny it was a valid point. What was the point of the agent’s little show, indeed?

“Perhaps he’s after my job,” Hux mused, half-joking, showing no visible signs of irritation at Ren’s dig. 

“Or something else.”

Hux’s look was withering. “Yes, or something else. He’s a spy, Ren, he’s probably just sizing us up. Figuring out how he can use us.”

“How he can use _ you _,” Ren corrected, that look still in his eye. Goading, challenging, pushing. Like a fucking child.

Knowing that Ren was purposefully trying to get a rise out of him, Hux attempted to suppress the prickle of irritation that climbed his neck. It was baffling how easily Ren could slip between making Hux’s dick throb to making his forehead throb.

Deciding it wasn’t worth the hassle, Hux shook his head and looked away, back at the throngs of people gathering downstairs. There were so many. So many people, so many conversations, so many sordid secrets, as Terex had acknowledged. Theirs was just one of many. 

If it ever happened.

“Okay,” Hux said, mostly to himself, and took a lengthy swig of his drink before slamming it down with more force than he’d intended. “I want some ground rules.”

There was a pause as Ren processed the change in topic. He frowned and tucked a stray curl behind his ear thoughtlessly, looking embarrassed once he’d done it. “Ground rules?” he repeated, clearing his throat.

“Yes. Ground rules. You know, no strings attached and all that.”

Realisation finally dawned on Ren’s face, and it settled back into something neutral that Hux nonetheless felt patronised by. “Well, obviously. No strings attached. What else is there to say?”

“Well, you know. No... _ kissing _,” Hux hissed the word and immediately recoiled, like a serpent tasting a bad scent in the air. “Or unnecessary touching.”

“Obviously.”

“No feelings.” Hux held his glass delicately in one hand, tucking his pinky finger in when Ren’s attention was briefly captured by the way it jutted out.

“I’ve always assumed you were sociopathically inclined anyway—”

“Not a _ word _to anyone.” 

Hux was trying not to flush. Ren paused to process the interruption, long enough to make Hux squirm under his heavy, dizzying gaze. Hux eventually took the opportunity to add, “And no exclusivity.”

“Now you’re just being logorrheic.”

“Do you keep a thesaurus behind that mask of yours?”

“Why, do you need one?”

“Don’t be such a child, Ren. I’m trying to—”

“I know what you’re trying to do, General,” Ren said, moving closer. “You’re trying to make it look like you’ve put up a fight about this. Like you’re thinking logically, weighing up the pros and cons — like you don’t want it — _ need _it — deep in the very pit of yourself—”

“No force powers,” Hux cut in, stilling the arrogant mania that was building behind Ren’s intense gaze. The sight made Hux’s lips twitch with glee. It was rare that he could catch Ren off guard. It was intoxicating. “No mind control, no force choking, no force restraining.” 

Ren’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as he glanced away, to the ground, and back at Hux. “Fine,” he agreed. 

“Fine,” Hux echoed. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” Ren said, straightening, leaning out of Hux’s space. “Only the victor gets to--” Ren came to a halt, dark eyes still watching Hux lazily, studying him, hiding his own want well — better than Hux, whose expression quivered when he silently filled in the blank before Ren’s unnecessary clarification: “Gets release.”

“Victor?” Hux asked after a beat. 

“Yes. With Snoke. He’s only ever pleased with one of us at a time. It’s meant to stoke the resentment between us.” 

_ It’s working _, Hux thought. 

“Considering you’re his protege, the odds seem a little unbalanced.”

Ren shook his head. “Let me rephrase. Whoever he’s displeased with doesn’t get to… and if he’s displeased with us both, then…”

“Skywalker’s balls, Ren, have you ever even _ had _sex? You do realise the aim of the game is to…”

Ren cut across him. “Look, General, if your belief in your own incompetence is that strong, we’ll leave it.”

It was another challenge. Hux knew he couldn’t decline. It would make him weak.

Hux’s lips curled up into a more acute sneer. “Fine,” he said again, at length, and then leaned closer over the table, filling the space Ren had just vacated, his watery green eyes brimming with spite. “But believe me when I tell you, Ren, that I am thinking logically. I don’t _ need _this — and I certainly don’t need you. I have plenty of other people with whom to…fraternise.” 

Hux spoke slowly and clearly throughout, but the last words he enunciated one syllable at a time, considering the cold, hard glare with which Ren regarded him a victory: “I just like watching you fail.”

Ren regarded him for a long time. The bite of Hux's words were diminished somewhat by the setting and the drinks that lay between them. Both men looked out of place here. 

As they watched one another, Hux grew aware of the now-familiar tingling sensation of force energy hovering at his throat. He did not flinch, but Hux did not trust the look on Ren's face. It was almost a smile, which never boded well.

Sure enough, Hux felt a new pressure. It was the force again, this time brushing against the inside of his legs, barely noticeable through his jeans. Hux's back went ramrod straight as he attempted to control his expression.

"What are you doing, Ren?"

"Hm?"

"Don't play coy."

To Hux's surprise, Ren only shook his head and finished the last of his drink nonchalantly. The pressure against his crotch grew more insistent, though, and Hux fought a grimace when his cock began to respond again, twitching with interest.

"Ren," Hux warned. "I said no force powers."

"Well," Ren hummed, "I assumed we hadn't officially begun yet, but if you want to play by the rules..."

Hux's jaw flexed as he swallowed thickly. It had been so long since he'd been touched like this and it only highlighted how tightly wound he was. How desperate for release.

A small noise escaped him, and for one dizzying moment, Ren pushed the force harder against him, letting Hux rock against the pressure, and then it was gone.

"I'll take my leave," Ren said, finally finishing his previous sentence, and stood to leave. "Good night, General."

With that, Ren swept from the booth and disappeared, leaving Hux panting and hard.

"Son of a kriffing bitch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for some reason, ao3 fucks up the text around italics and adds spaces everywhere. I haven't figured out how to combat it yet...
> 
> anyway enjoy, sorry this took so long!

**Author's Note:**

> I hate Star Wars
> 
> [My Kylux playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2FQYKcxS9I9bRIxzFZi7nw?si=UwS1q_g7RqKhx-OKlBUAiA)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kylosboyfriend)


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